Forget Me Nots
by onceuponamirror
Summary: Emma Swan has been plagued by recurring dreams for the past year; she sees people and moments that feel more like memories than imagination, but there's only one face she ever remembers. Two shot, Captain Swan.
1. the dream

It's the same dream as it always is.

It starts out in a forest, and she's with a group of women she's never seen before. One of them she knows she's close with, but Emma can never quite remember her face.

The dream moves slowly in some parts and quickly in others. She never quite figures out how she gets there (the semantics of the netherworld, she supposes), but somehow she winds up on a giant beanstalk (yeah, one of _those_ beanstalks, of the fo-fum notoriety) alongside a dark-haired man.

Then her dream shifts, and she finds herself on an island. It's hot and she's surrounded by jungle—_and people, there are people, and she thinks she might even know some of them_—and she thinks Henry might be there, somewhere, but she's never quite sure.

The man's face is the only one she ever sees.

It all blurs in and out of focus. She might not be able to describe the shape of his nose or the stye of his dress, but she _can_ feel the velvet on his tongue and recall (as clear as if it were a memory) the color of his eyes: deep, brilliant, and blue as forget-me-nots.

Just as he always whispers to her.

_Forget-me-not, Emma. Remember me._

_There's not a day that will go by that I will not think of you._

She tries to cry out, ask him who he is and why he's thinking of her—but that's always when she wakes up, his promises whispered into the world on her own lips, halfway between wide-awake and dreaming.

—

The moment she opens the door, she can feel her heart seizing in its place. Her jaw drops, taking him in.

The light meets his eyes, and his lips lift, his voice soft, almost incredulous, like he can't believe it and he's whispering, "Swan," like he's known her forever.

And for a moment, she believes him.

Because for a moment, she thinks she knows him. But it's impossible, it _can't be him_.

_That man isn't real._

He moves closer, trying to enter through the doorway. "At last," he breathes, almost to himself. Her instincts kick in, because no way is some stranger barreling into the kitchen where Henry waits. Her hand flies out, pushing him back.

"Do I know you?"

_Yes. _

_No._

He doesn't hesitate. "I need your help. Something's happened, something terrible. Your family is in trouble."

But Henry's safe, in the kitchen; she shouldn't need her superpower to see if he's lying, and yet…somehow he isn't. She narrows her eyes. "My family's right here. Who are you?"

His voice drops into a whisper, his eyes—_his eyes, his eyes, why does she know those eyes_—gleaming imploringly. "An old friend," he says hushedly. "I know you can't remember me…"

_Remember me._

Emma cocks her neck, squinting. He can't be, he isn't, it's not real, the man who visits her in her dreams is nothing but the result of too much television before bed. _She doesn't know him._

"…But I can make you."

In her distractions, she barely notices his anxiety, the jump in his step before he leaps forward and brings their lips crashing together.

For a fleeting moment, her eyes begin to flutter closed, because somehow this is right. His lips on hers feel more like a memory than an assault, as if he's the only one who's ever meant to kiss her, who maybe ever was.

She considers melting into it for half a second before wising up, her eyes snapping open and her knee jolting upwards into his groin. He doubles over and falls backwards against the wall. "The hell are you doing?" She cries, because who the hell goes knocking on strangers doors and kissing them like as though they've done it before?

"A long shot," he winces, trying to stand. "I was hoping you felt as I did."

_What the actual fuck_, she thinks, _he's actually a stalker._

She doesn't know him. She _can't_ know him. So how could she feel the same way?

"All I gotta feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops," she huffs.

His voice takes on a desperate turn, eyes turning pleading. "I-I know this seems crazy, but you have to listen to me, you have to remem—"

She slams the door shut, breathing heavily.

She doesn't have to remember anything.

She doesn't know him.

He's _not_ the man from her dreams, blue eyes or not. That's impossible. It would be crazy.

And yet, when she sits down for breakfast with her son, his voice echoes in her ears, something she distinctly knows he didn't say in the hallway.

_There's not a day that will go by that I will not think of you._


	2. bottoms up

A mix of emotions pass over his face, starting with shock and finding its way to joy; she can't deny her heart flutters a bit at the way his face lights up upon seeing her. But it's not until he breathes, "You're here," that she truly feels it skip.

He rushes down the steps of the precinct, fiddling with his fake hand, where the left should be.

"Yeah," she huffs, averting her eyes before the look in his causes her to fucking _swoon_ or something stupid like that. "I dropped the charges. I wasn't going to leave you there. I know what that's like, trust me. "

(She swears she hears him mumble _It wouldn't be the first time_, but she can't be sure.)

When she looks back, he's watching her and grinning like a fool. There's something infectious about it, because she can feel her own lips tugging dangerously upwards. "I appreciate that, Swan," he says lowly.

"Don't get too excited," Emma warns, but she can't stifle her own smile before he sees it. "It was a one time thing."

He freezes, looking suddenly so overwhelmingly _sad _that Emma can't help but feel guilty. She'd only been teasing, hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. But he quickly shakes it, smiling again as if it never happened.

"Well, you _are_ here," Killian—_that was his name, wasn't it?_—says, raising a challenging eyebrow. "A man could only be so lucky to have you waiting for him."

Emma purses her lips, flattening her expression skeptically. "Do you always talk like this?"

"I can talk any way it pleases you," he says huskily, without skipping a beat. Realizing his connotation, he curses himself, having the decency to look embarrassed. "Apologies, my lady. Old habits."

One innuendo too many should probably be her cue to leave, but there's something _achingly_ familiar about it. So instead she grins dubiously, and rolls her eyes. But she doesn't move.

He notices.

Hesitantly, he continues, "Certainly not that I'm complaining, love, but what…_are_ you doing here?"

She'd been waiting for that, and yet she isn't prepared. "I…"

Killian's expression turns gravely serious, and he steps forward, his good hand anxiously hovering over her arm for a few seconds before making contact. His thumb runs across the fabric of her sleeve, and even if she can't feel it, it still sends chills up her spine and _how can a stranger make her feel this way_?

"You can tell me, Emma," he says, and strangely, Emma believes him. For the first time since she's met him, she actually believes him. She inexplicably knows she could tell him anything. Her darkest fears, her greatest hopes, anything from the banality of her life to the desire for something more.

It is this sudden sense of trust that has the truth spilling from her lips. "I don't know you. I don't remember you—" His expression falls, her heart twisting at the sight. "—but I think I've been _trying_ to."

Apprehension crosses his face, quickly followed by a dangerous amount of hope, a light in his eyes where there quite hasn't been before. Emma swallows, steadying her breath. "I think I've been dreaming of you. Somehow, I…I can't explain it, but you feel familiar. I think I recognize you, and I don't know how or why, but I can't shake it. Even though I tried. Seriously."

His eyes sear into hers, hanging on to her every word, unwilling to speak, as if afraid he might scare her off. (A valid fear, Emma notes. Of course, he shouldn't know that she spooks easily, but he also shouldn't know a lot of things he seems to.)

She exhales, continuing. "For the past year, I've been having these really intense dreams. Some of them are about this other woman, this woman claiming to be the mother of my son. In some of them, she tries to kill me, and in others she doesn't. It's weird, I don't know. And then in other ones…my parents are there. Or, at least, in my dream they are. They're not that old, but I can't really see their faces, so I don't really know who they are, but…whatever."

Killian remains silent. "And…in some of them…you're in them. You're in most of them, actually. And it sometimes even seems like…we're…I don't know, sort of _together_—and, maybe you're crazy, or maybe_ I'm_ crazy, but maybe what you're saying is true. _Maybe_."

"Love—"

"No, let me finish," Emma surges, knowing she should be nervous. Should. "What you're asking me to believe is _ridiculous_. I know that I raised my son, I know that I never gave him up for adoption. I never met my parents. _I know this_." Her eyes dart to his, bright and burning. "But I also know you're not lying to me. I would know if you were. And some of the stuff you said earlier…it fits. I should think you're just a stalker, but I don't. I trust you, and I can't figure out why. So…I'll drink your stupid bottle of purple tang, but if nothing happens, if I don't get my 'real' memories back—you have to leave me alone. For good."

His breath catches in his throat. "I swear it."

Her hand moves to her pocket, where she's kept his strange purple potion since he got arrested. Her fingers brush it gently, running over the smooth surface before she pulls it out and pops off the cork cap. She looks at him, and will later swear she felt everything around them freeze, the two of them timeless in the city that never stands still.

"Bottoms up," she says, straightening her neck and knocking back the potion.

For a few moments, she is still, stuck in her position. Then, slowly, she lowers the bottle from her lips, dropping her neck, meeting his eyes.

"Emma?" He whispers cautiously.

She stares at him blankly. Then blinks. "Hook?" She breathes, and rushes towards him.

He lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, relief flooding through every pore. He meets her halfway, their bodies colliding, his good hand wrapping around the back of her neck, burying his nose in her hair. "I never thought I'd be so happy to hear that moniker," he murmurs, sighing contentedly.

Finally, after what feels like ages, she pulls back, but quite not out of his arms. She looks at him, eyes full of wonder and surprise and something quite akin to hope. "You found me."

He grins, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. "Does that surprise you?"


End file.
